


Click Click

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Demisexual Sherlock, Exhibitionism, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Oral, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft notices Sherlock showing ‘symptoms’ that he’s going to end his friendship with John, so he warns him not to give up on the consulting detective. John’s stubbornness pays of, but Sherlock asks for a bit of a trade in order to maintain their friendship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Click Click

 

 

 

 

It started out like a typical day. Lestrade asked them for help with a case and they headed over, Sherlock solved it in under an hour and told everyone they were stupid, John told him he was fantastic, and then Sherlock looked horrified and bolted for the street without waiting for John to join him in the cab. John was a bit annoyed by that last bit, but Sherlock was an annoying guy who he was fairly good at tolerating so he sighed and called his own cab to get home.

Halfway to Baker Street his cab was suddenly cut off by a black towncar and John groaned miserably while the cabby swore angrily and waved at the driver to move.

“Don’t bother,” John sighed, “It’s for me.”

He tipped the fellow to make up for his fury and hopped into the car.

“Did you miss me at the corner or something?” John taunted Mycroft when he found him inside rather than Anthea, “Losing your touch?”

Mycroft gave him an anxious look.

_Oh shit._

“What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked, panic rising, “ _Tell me_ he doesn’t have to die again.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mycroft sighed, “But it may be a bit worse for you.”

“For me?” John asked, “What’s wrong with me? It’s not medical, I’d know. A threat? A stalker from the blog?”

“No, you’re about to lose your biggest fan,” Mycroft replied with a frown.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John worried, picturing her near death.

“No. Sherlock.”

XXX

John stepped into 221B with laughter still rippling through him. Sherlock was pacing the sitting room as John tossed himself down into his chair.

“You will not _believe_ the conversation I just had,” John chuckled.

“You and Mycroft discussed my _habit_ of systematically destroying friendships. You didn’t believe him,” Sherlock stated, still pacing anxiously. John realized he was sweating quite a bit and sat up straighter.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“No. No I am not,” Sherlock spun on him and what John saw was downright terrifying.

Sherlock was flushed and drenched in sweat, his hands were shaking as they ran through his disheveled hair. His eyes were unfocused and looked a bit damp.

“Sherlock,” John stood up quickly, “I think you should sit down.”

“John, you’ve been… indispensable to me for years now.”

“Did you take something?” John asked, worry being replaced with a bit of anger as he stepped up to study his pupils. They were dilated.

“A true and loyal friend,” Sherlock continued with a clearly rehearsed speech.

“Stop it,” John snapped, “Whatdid you take?”

“However every good thing _must_ come to an end and…”

“Stop bloody breaking up with me,” John snapped, “And answer my question! What? Did? You? Take?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve had ice water since you saw me last and nothing else. Would me taking drugs make you leave?”

“No,” John replied, narrowing his eyes, “I’m not leaving, Sherlock. I’m your flatmate, but Mrs. Hudson owns the building. You can’t just toss me out, she has to evict me.”

“Mycroft told you to be firm with me, to refuse to leave, to stick by me no matter how obnoxious or offensive I am,” Sherlock stated knowingly, “He told you I’ve been through this with friends before and that he’s afraid I’ll break if I chase you off.”

“He told me your drug habit started after you pushed away your first friend in Uni. Victor Trevor, was it?”

“John,” Sherlock shifted his hips to one side and folded his hands in a prayer position, “I’m begging you. I’m serious. You have no idea what destroying our friendship would do to me.”

“Okay, so don’t. See a therapist or…”

“It isn’t something that can be helped. You need to _leave_.”

“I’m not leaving. Mycroft told me you spend a majority of time alone, making sure you _don’t_ make friends, and when you finally meet someone who does tolerate you then you eventually force them away. _He_ doesn’t even know why. All he knows is they symptoms before it happens. The ones he says you showed _today_. What is this, Sherlock? Why push away people?”

“If I tell you, you’ll be disgusted by me,” Sherlock replied, his voice cracking, “I just want this to be quick and painless, John. I don’t want you to hate me like the rest did. Please. Just move out. Don’t contact me again. If I can be around you again without being a problem I’ll contact you. Sufficient?”

“No, it’s not bloody sufficient!” John shouted angrily.

“I’m trying to compromise here, John!” Sherlock shouted back.

“I’m not bloody going anywhere, so you’ll just have to get used to it!”

“WELL YOU’RE NOT GOING ON CASES WITH ME EITHER!”

“FINE!”

“FINE!!”

John stormed off to his room and Sherlock resumed pacing.

XXX

For the next few days John was stubborn while Sherlock silently avoided him, hurrying out of any room he was in and looking otherwise terrified in his presence. He seemed convinced that he’d do something horrible to John if he stayed near him. John made a decision and called Mycroft that resulted in a few phone numbers. Three men and one woman. Sherlock’s lifetime worth of friends. All of whom were still raging mad at him when John called them and asked. They all detailed to him the same situation; Sherlock suddenly became aggressive towards them, pushing them away at record speed. Before they knew it they were packing their bags. Then the weird part: Sherlock suddenly switched things around and begged them to stay. He apologized profusely (John was eager to see that part) and told them he’d be better if they’d just do him one favour.

Then the damn people clammed up and refused to tell him what that favour was.

John decided to go to the source and demanded _Sherlock_ tell him what the favour was. Sherlock blushed violently and stammered, which was nearly as fun to watch as the promised apologizing to come, but he didn’t tell John what he wanted to know. It continued like this for a few more weeks, John steadfastly refusing to leave while looking for a new job now that Sherlock wasn’t taking him on cases anymore. Finally it came to a head when Sherlock sat down across from him with his favorite digital camera in hand. It was a Canon EOS Rebel T5i 18.0 MP CMOS with every attachment John had ever heard of and a few he hadn’t. Sherlock was fingering it anxiously as he glanced up at John. John, sensing a break in the situation, put his paper aside and straightened up.

“I want to call a truce.”

“That would imply we’ve been fighting. We haven’t. You’ve been being a twat and I’ve been tolerating it… which I’m going to keep doing, because I’m not letting you destroy our friendship.”

Sherlock glanced down at his camera and then back up at John, “I think you can manage to deal with what I’m going to ask you next.”

“So we’ve skipped to the favour already? That’s good. What is it?”

“It’s not… it’s not what I asked the other’s for.”

“What did you ask them for?”

“Not important.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It’s irrelevant in our situation. John, I’d like you to pose for some pictures.”

“For a case?”

Sherlock seemed to think on that for a bit, “No.”

“Okay, why then?”

“I need pictures of you to move past this… problem I’m having with our friendship.”

“Okay. What for?”

“That will become obvious,” Sherlock replied, “Once I tell you what _kind_ of pictures.”

“Okay. What kind of pictures?” John asked, raising an eyebrow and mentally bracing himself. He had a feeling this would trump body parts in the icebox and drugs in his tea.

“Nudes.”

“Nudes.”

“Yes, nudes, is there an echo?” Sherlock asked, his familiar tone creeping in.

“Why?”

“No questions.”

“Not possible. Why do you want nude photos of me?”

“Again, that will become obvious. To make this less awkward-“

“-Really? That’s possible?”

“-I’m prepared to offer you a legal contract,” Sherlock reached into his dressing gown and pulled out a small packet that he handed to John, “I’ve had a lawyer draw it up. It’s a standard non-disclosure. Your pictures will never leave my possession, never be posted on the internet, never shown to another soul. In the even of my death they return to your possession and I’ll make sure you know where each is located so that you can get to them quickly and easily.”

John flipped through the paperwork, noting that it was drawn up using the sort of references one might find in modeling… or porn. He wasn’t quite sure which. Finally he sighed and reached for a pen.

“This means you’ll stop avoiding me? Let me go on cases again? Treat me like a friend instead of an enemy?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“And this will be your _last_ weird request?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” John nodded, and signed on the last page.

Sherlock all but bolted to his feet, “Bedroom. Mine.”

“Alright,” John nodded.

XXX

John stood awkwardly at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, “Okay, how do you want me Carlos Clarke?”

“Very funny,” Sherlock replied dryly, “No latex, I’m afraid. No women, either. Just you. On the bed, if you please. On your back as if you were resting. Close your eyes and pretend to sleep.”

John climbed in and lay down, Sherlock moved the blankets about while he partially closed his eyes, watching his odd flatmate through his lashes.

“ _All_ the way shut,” Sherlock scolded.

John shut his eyes and heard the snapping commence. To his surprise Sherlock covered him almost up to his chin in a blanket and kept clicking away.

_Click. Click._

“Now smile as if you’ve just had a wonderful dream.

_Click!_

“Now look tense, a bit frightened, as if you’ve had a nightmare.”

He moved around to be closer to John’s face.

_Click!_

“Now laugh a bit. No, more. As if you’ve heard the best joke in the world… like Anderson leaving his wife for Donovan.”

_Click!_

“Okay, now onto your stomach.”

_Click. Click._

The blankets were inched down.

“Sit up and stretch. Slowly.”

_Click. Click. Click._

John opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock staring at him, camera in hand, with a small smile playing on his lips. It was so utterly human, so strangely sweet, that he did a double take and then felt himself flush red.

“Okay,” Sherlock stated, shaking himself out of his reverie, “On your knees, legs apart, back facing me.”

John got into position. _Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

“On your hands and knees.”

_Click. Click. Click. …_ A moment of aperture adjustments. A bottle tossed down on the bed. John blushed as he realized what the bottle was. _Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

“Face to the bed.”

John was fairly certain his face was red enough to set the bedding afire, but he still lowered his face obediently to the bedclothes. He wanted things to go back to normal, but he was starting to believe that it wasn’t going to happen. Sherlock was also ominously silent. John was sure he was clean as he’d been told ahead of time to shower _very_ thoroughly. Finally, as he shifted about awkwardly, Sherlock began to click the camera again.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

“Sherlock?” John asked anxiously.

“Hush,” Sherlock replied, his voice breathy, “Spread your cheeks for me.”

No doubt about it now. This _was_ sexual. Sherlock might have played it off for a case if he’d bothered to try, but this was real. His voice was dripping desire.

John bit his lip and made himself bottle up his concerns. He reached back behind himself, grumbling at the awkward and uncomfortable position, and spread his arsecheeks for Sherlock’s perusal.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

John scrambled to sit up as Sherlock climbed onto the bed behind him. He frowned at John when he tumbled around to face him.

“I’m just attempting to get a specific angle. Relax, John. I won’t touch you. I _do_ know there are limits, despite your repeat accusation in the past that there are not.”

That being said, he raised the camera to his face and loudly cleared his throat to enforce the fact John was to get into position again. John hesitated, staring uneasily at the erection visible in Sherlock’s trousers. Finally he turned again.

_Click. Click._

“Would you be adverse to putting some of that lube on?”

“On… where?”

“Your entrance, of course.”

“You mean _my exit_?” John pointed out.

“A prostate might be a decent argument for that ideology. However, for the sake of clarity, around your anus.”

John huffed in frustration and grabbed the bottle. It was labeled for anal sex. He froze a moment, just staring at it with his face smooshed into the bed, and then swallowed at the dryness in his throat and squeezed some out on his hand. He reached back with his left hand and rubbed wet fingers over his pucker, hissing and squirming at the cold fluid on such a sensitive area.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

_Click. Click._

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

_Click. Click._

_Click._

_Click. Click. Click._

“Perfect,” Sherlock whispered, his voice shaky, “Now flex back a bit. Good.”

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

“Onto your back again. Lift your legs up and… yes, that’s it.”

_Click. Click._

_Click. Click. Click._

“Could you look at the camera and… smile?” Sherlock asked, voice strangled at forcing out such a request.

John grinned before turning his head to face the camera, and the look he gave it was deliberately steamy. Sherlock froze, camera halfway to his face, and stared at John with bite-bruised lips partially open. He was flushed and sweating, his eyes wide and shockingly vulnerable, his hands trembled before he managed to steady them enough to take a few quick pictures. _Click. Click. Click._

“Okay. This part might be impossible, but I _do_ realize that. Try to work yourself up to an erection. Partial is acceptable. Full would be perfect.”

John had been expecting that. He was also starting to figure out what was going on with Sherlock, besides the obvious sexy picture desire. He grabbed the lube again and began to work his soft prick to hardness, picturing everything sexy he could imagine. Sherlock’s breath was audible in the room, and he whimpered as John arched his hips when passion finally began to coil through his belly. Sherlock had been fiddling with something while John was working himself over and when he opened his eyes it was to see a tripod set up.

“I’m not going to be moving the camera for this last bit. It doesn’t need it,” Sherlock lied miserably. John knew what the difficulty was. He was absolutely weak with desire and had resorted to leaning casually on his dresser. A wet patch marked where the head of his cock was already obviously outlined. He looked miserable. John felt a bit of pity for him and this apparently irresolvable situation, but it was also more than a bit heady to be looked at like that by someone; as if he were the only other sexual being alive on the planet and Sherlock was _starved_ for him.

“Let me guess, you want me to toss off?”

“If you can manage. I… I can leave the room if you want. It’s set to go off when I push this button and then it will just keep up so…”

“No, it’s fine,” John replied, but then took pity on him. He probably wanted to wank as well, “Unless you want to leave?”

“Not particularly,” Sherlock replied, and sent him a look that made his bollocks draw up. Sherlock wanted him the way lions wanted fat gazelle and John’s hand was moving of it’s own accord.

Sherlock hit the button on the camera and John saw the second he realized his mistake. He now had nothing to do with his hands, nothing to distract him from the bawdy scene before him. John grinned as he began to toss off sincerely, arching up to fuck his hand while rubbing the other across his chest.

“Look at the camera,” Sherlock ordered, his voice hoarse.

John obeyed, but only after pausing to run his tongue over his bottom lip. Then he gave the camera a flirty stare, eyelids lowered, and began to pant with effort as the thought hit him that Sherlock would be looking at this later.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

A plethora of pictures. A voyeuristic flipbook. A pornographic novel of Captain John H. Watson, MD.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

Sherlock’s breath was frantic and John glanced aside in concern that he might hyperventilate. The fact the man _wasn’t_ touching himself or humping something came as a shock. He was clearly aroused beyond any normal man’s endurance, his grip on his desk white knuckled. John was more than a bit turned on himself, enough so that he was approaching orgasm at an alarming rate. To turn it up a bit for Sherlock he reached down, lifting one leg a bit and grunting at the effort, and stroked his hole again. He felt muscles flutter that normally remained dormant and took Sherlock up on his advice. He moved up his taint and pressed twice until he managed to find his prostate.

John grunted and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fucked his fist, his thumb tapping the tip of his cock with each upward thrust, until his body rolled into wave after wave of pleasure. Each ebb and flow was accompanied by a spurt of heat across his hand and belly, and he groaned in ecstasy. Sated, John let himself sag onto the bed and simply lay there, legs splayed and body thrumming in gratification. Sherlock whimpered, then cleared his throat, and took in a breath that hitched, and then gave up on his attempt at speech and staggered over to the camera to shut it off.

“You can go now,” Sherlock wheezed as if in pain.

The clicking stopped and John’s mind slammed back down into reality. He’d just wanked off while his flatmate photographed it all in lurid detail. He swallowed down bile and bolted for the doorway, scrambling to collect clothes as he did. He made it to the bathroom where he shakily started up the shower while shame pooled in his belly where contentment had once been. Behind him he heard a sharp cry and knew Sherlock was finding a similar release, but he doubted it would be the sort he really wanted. As the water cascaded over John, chasing away the feeling of self-betrayal and mortification, he thought that his flatmate was likely to find his solution as empty as the ache in his chest.

When John left the shower, dressed only in his robe, he sat down to research sexualities and came up with a confirmation to his hypothesis. Sherlock wasn’t just repeating a cycle; he was _suffering_ through a kind of fate. Being a man who was used to being alone he had few friends, and when he _did_ find a friend…

XXX

“Demisexual,” John informed Mycroft, “Sherlock is demisexual. He’s not mentally ill, he’s falling in love with his friends and then pushing them away because he doesn’t know how to handle it. What he _needs_ is a boyfriend or girlfriend, preferably one that starts out as a friend. The last four people obviously weren’t up for the task but…”

Mycroft smirked, “Do you think you’re clever? I’m fully aware of my brother’s sexuality. It’s the people he _falls for_ who are the problem.”

“Come again?” John asked, his eyes narrowing, “How am I the problem?”

“Because you’re straight. Sherlock never falls for someone who is attracted to men. Ever.”

_The Woman_ , John thought, _Except in her own sick way she loved him back. Yet he knew that was doomed so..._

“Okay. So we find him a gay man or a straight woman or…”

“You’re not understanding,” Mycroft laughed bitterly, “This isn’t as simple as putting him on a dating sight. Sherlock _only_ falls in love with his friends-“

“That _is_ the definition of demisexual, isn’t it? He has to love them before he’s attracted to them, so he falls for his friends because no one else can get close.”

“So who will you pick, hm? Lestrade? Hooper? _Mrs. Hudson_? Who will you find to replace _you?”_

John saw his point. Sherlock didn’t fall for _all_ of his friends, only the ones he was especially close to, and that was John. No one else. It could take _years_ to cultivate the kind of relationship that would result in Sherlock falling in love with them, and therefore becoming aroused by them.

“So he really can’t… you know… perform? Without them being…”

“You? As far as I’m aware he hasn’t become-“ Mycroft made a look of distaste- “ _Aroused_ since Miss Morstan threw him out of their flat together a week before he met you. It may not _be_ a mental illness, as I first described it to you, but it _is_ an ailment. Sherlock is well aware that he’s unfit for a romantic relationship so his only recourse is to ask for sex so he can at least get _something_ from them before they get tired of his nonsense and leave.”

“That’s what he asked the others for? A shag?” John asked, gaping. He hadn’t expected that. It was so… base. Sherlock didn’t seem the sort.

Mycroft gave him a baffled look, “Isn’t that what he asked you for?”

“No,” John replied, and then made it clear by way of expression that he was _not_ elaborating.

“On 16 April, 5:16 PM, you went into his room, remained for quite some time, and then left the shower nearly two hours later.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit creepy,” John informed him.

“You are telling me you did _not_ have sex with my brother?”

“No. Didn’t even discuss it.”

“The camera?”

John raised an eyebrow and Mycroft made a face, “I see. Well, that will keep him busy for a bit I suppose, but it doesn’t solve your _problem_.”

“No,” John sighed, “It doesn’t.”

John went home to find Sherlock up playing a rather sad song on his violin. He sat down in his chair and watched quietly for a bit, just enjoying the dulcet tones until Sherlock lowered the bow slowly and simply stood staring out the window.

“How are you?” John ventured.

“Fine,” Sherlock clearly lied.

“So. Demisexual,” John stated plainly.

“Mm.”

“It must make it simpler to stay alone, withdrawn, antisocial.”

“Does this conversation have a point?” Sherlock asked testily.

“Back to normal, I see,” John grinned, but his joke fell short and his smile slid off his face like so much oil off his backside.

“We have a case tomorrow,” Sherlock informed him, “That man from your clinic who had his thumb chopped off finally took your advice and dropped by.”

“Good. That’s… good.”

“See you in the morning, Watson,” Sherlock stated stiffly, and then headed to his room.

“Sure. In the morning… Holmes…” John muttered.

_Not the same. Not better. Worse. He’s suffering, but now he’s determined to be ‘just friends’. Now what? What could fix this? What could make this_ _survivable? He died for me. I lived for him. There has to be something there. I got off in front of him. Is that enough? Could I manage it? I tried it with that bloke in the Army and it did basically nothing for me, but would it be different with Sherlock? Or is what Mycroft said true? Would me being attracted to him be an instant off? Does he only want the unattainable?_

John sighed and headed to his room to mull it over, toppling into a light sleep surrounded by gunfire, falling detectives, and the sound of a camera clicking away.

It took a week before John decided the distance between them was simply unacceptable. He decided it after the third time that week that Sherlock gave him a strange look and then fled to his room with a prominent erection. He was done. If all he could give was handjobs and blowjobs than that would be it. He’d manage. He’d give Sherlock what he needed because Sherlock gave _him_ what he needed. He stormed the bedroom only to find it… empty?

Sherlock was gone. A glance into his open cupboard showed he’d managed to install a trap door. The bastard had gone in and slipped away. John knew why immediately, of course. It was only too obvious, even to him. Sherlock wanted John to see the pictures. There were dozens of them. They were hung from the walls, pasted over the ceiling, blown up, shrunk down, tasteful, lewd, and edited to look artsy and vague. There was even a rather disturbing one that was cut up to look like a Picasso John. The most disturbing part, however, was that some of them- many of them- weren’t from times he’d posed. They were from _months_ ago. It was John on dates, but with the date artfully cut out and Sherlock pasted in. It was John asleep on the couch or in his _bed_. John easily recognized the sleep shirt he’d worn the same night Sherlock had him pose. The bastard had snuck up to his room afterwards!

_This is unhealthy,_ John realized as he backed out of the room, _This is why the others ran, why they wouldn’t tell me what the favours were. They didn’t want to admit they’d encouraged_ this _level of madness. Sherlock isn’t just in love. He’s obsessed._

John’s back bumped into soft but unyielding flesh and he turned to find Sherlock standing in the hallway. John swallowed around the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders.

“No more pictures of me, Sherlock,” John stated firmly, “Not without my permission. Not on dates, not in my room, not in the den. No more. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, and gave him a mocking salute. Then he left, taking his semi-hard cock with him. John didn’t feel as if he’d had any sort of victory.

A few nights later John was heavy in a dream involving a case where Sherlock had replaced all the members of Lestrade’s team, including Lestrade. It was odd to watch him standing there and berating himself for stupidity.

“If any of you had _paid attention_ ,” Sherlock Holmes screamed at Sherlock Lestrade, “I’d still be alive!”

John glanced down at the body and it was Sherlock, his position in mimicry of his jump from the hospital, but instead of being on the ground outside of St. Bart’s they were in the classroom where Jeff Hope had tried to force him to swallow a pill. John felt horrible but there was no waking himself up. Another Sherlock appeared, toting his Canon, and began snapping pictures of himself lying on the ground.

“That’s it,” Sherlock Cameraman cooed at Sherlock Body, his voice sultry and deep, “Work it, baby. Work it. Make love to the camera.”

The blood soaked Sherlock rolled onto his belly and smirked at the camera, biting at that full bottom lip that refused to redden due to all the bloodloss.

“All you had to do was realize that the phone would _lead you right to me!_ ” Sherlock Holmes shouted at Sherlock Lestrade, “This is why I _needed an assistant_!”

_Click! Click!_

_Click!_

“As if anyone would want to be _your_ assistant! Freak!” Sherlock Donovan replied, shifting about in her patent leather pumps.

_Click!_

_Click!_

“He’s a _psychopath_ ,” Sherlock Anderson ranted, scratching at his beard, “No one can stand him for more than a shag!”

“I’m not a psychopath!” Sherlock shouted, spinning on him angrily, “I’m a high functioning sociopath! Or didn’t you figure that out when I asked you to pose for nude photos?”

“Sherlock!” A muffled voice shouted, and John glanced up to see Sherlock Watson clad in a jumper, shouting through the windows in the building across the street, “He’s my friend! Let me through! He’s my friend! Oh god noooooooo!”

John looked back down at Sherlock Body to see him being carted off by Sherlock Hooper and Sherlock Hudson in lab coats.

“This one’s a keeper!” Sherlock Hudson chirped, “Mrs. Turner’s got married ones! If only he’d found someone to keep him on the straight and narrow!”

Sherlock Molly shrugged and painted his lips with scarlet lipstick, “It wasn’t working for me. He always says the most horrible things.”

They wheeled him out of the room, laughing merrily, while John tried desperately to move from the spot he was cemented in and Sherlock Watson started to sob and bang on the window across the way. Sherlock Cameraman clicked away while the rest joined in the laughter, following him out the door as the room tilted sideways and then forward and John was falling. Falling through the open door and then backwards and out the window and _slam!_

Into his Sherlock Watson where he woke up as John Watson, sitting bolt upright in bed and panting in horror. Pain lanced through his chest at the recollection of Sherlock covered in blood. Sherlock alone. Sherlock _dead_.

_Click!_

John turned his head and gaped at his shameless flatmate.

“Good morning, John. There’s been a double homicide in…”

John cut Sherlock’s explanation off by reaching out and running his hand up Sherlock’s thigh. He stopped an inch away from his throbbing bulge and looked up at him. Sherlock was biting his lip, his eyes wide, and his voice clearly lost as he stared down at John with the most vulnerable look on his face.

“Stop or go?” John asked.

“Hm?” Sherlock wondered.

“Stop or go? You see normal people ask for consent before engaging in sex acts… or taking pictures of their sleeping boyfriends.”

“Oh. Well. Yes. I mean go. I mean… oh!”

John ran his hand fully up the outline of Sherlock’s cock and the man staggered and nearly dropped his expensive camera. John snatched it up and placed it down on his nightstand, rising to pull Sherlock against him. Their lips smashed together in an inelegant kiss that John carefully corrected, surprised to find that he had to _teach_ the consulting detective what to do with lips and tongue. Once the man caught on the kiss quickly turned heated and John tugged him backwards into the bed. Sherlock sprawled across him and they spent a moment situating limbs before he straddled John’s hips and began to frantically rub against the hand still palming his cock.

“Oh gods, John!” Sherlock cried out, his hips stuttering as he came hard in his pants.

John lay still beneath him, trying to figure out if he should do or say something else while Sherlock lay limp on top of him, panting and clinging to his shoulders with a fierce grip. Then the man slowly sat up, his eyes questioning as he stared down at John.

“Now what?” Sherlock asked, “Boyfriend? We both know you aren’t gay.”

John shrugged, “We also both know sexuality is more flexible than that. You’re a prime example.”

Sherlock nodded, “Then we… try this?”

“For now.”

“You aren’t aroused.”

“I might be next time. Just answer _one_ question for me.”

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded.

“Did you ever ask Anderson for nude photos?”

Sherlock gave John an absolutely horrified look that John was fairly certain should have ended their ‘relationship’ right then and there, but the man was apparently truly in love with him because he forced down his revulsion and shook his head.

“No. Never. Don’t ever suggest it again.”

“Not a problem. I’ll just let my subconscious know that.”

“You do that.”

XXX

The thrill of a case. The sweat from a chase. The heat of breath on his neck. Long, elegant fingers tugging at his clothes. A push. A tumble. A soft mattress beneath his body. A long, lean body above him.

“I don’t bottom,” John panted, “Ever. Don’t even ask.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, grabbing a bottle of lube and slicking up his cock.

“I might not even want to top,” John warned, “We might have to stick to alternative types of non-penatrative sex.”

“Say sex again,” Sherlock demanded.

“Sex,” John smirked.

Sherlock reached down and palmed John’s bollocks with a slick hand. John found the sensation desirable so his legs fell open with a soft moan. Sherlock’s fingers immediately slid back and John hissed and squirmed away.

“Do you even listen?”

“Not when I know full well you took an enema before we left in the hopes this would happen,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, “Luckily it was a short case.”

“I hate that you know me better than I know myself,” John growled as he gripped beneath his knees and lifted his legs high.

“No you don’t,” Sherlock scoffed, and then set about preparing him.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” John moaned, wriggling on his fingers.

“No you’re not,” Sherlock replied, then swallowed his cock down. And gagged. And tried again to John’s absolute joy.

Finally he was pressing the spongy head of his cock against John’s entrance, so the captain reached up to grip his upper arms and steady himself as he realized that _yes, this was happening_.

“Sherlock,” John whispered.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, as he popped past the first ring and slowly began the slide inside of John’s body.

John closed his eyes and told himself it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t, really. Not awful, just not _good_. It took a bit before Sherlock was able to press completely inside of him, and then they stayed that way for a moment while Sherlock whimpered with need.

“Go ahead, love,” John whispered, brushing a curl aside.

Sherlock’s ethereal eyes flickered open; he gave John a grateful glance, and then began to move inside of him. John felt a moment of panic and then calm followed by a slow rise of pleasure as Sherlock’s long, thin cock stroked over his prostate.

“Faster,” John whispered, and Sherlock let out a choked cry before beginning to absolutely _pound_ him, “Oh, yeah. That’s it Lock.”

John released one of Sherlock’s arms to grasp his cock, stroking it to full hardness while Sherlock flushed above him and stared down at him in wonder.

“John!” Sherlock gasped.

“Yes. That’s it. Come inside me,” John growled, giving his muscles an experimental flex.

Sherlock shouted in shock and pleasure, his hips pressing hard against John’s backside as he came with several sharp cries.

“Oh! John! OH!”

“Yeah,” John breathed a sigh out.

He was still achingly hard as Sherlock slid free and staggered upright, standing beside the bed and looking faintly panicked.

“What do I do? John? Tell me how to do this. I want you to feel _wonderful_.”

_You don’t know_? John thought, but out loud he replied, “Touch me. Finger my ass. Rub my bollocks. Lick my cock. _Anything!_ ”

Two of Sherlock’s fingers slid inside, squelching obscenely, and the other hand pushed John’s fist away to take its place. He stroked John fast and hard while rubbing at his prostate until John was writhing on the bed. The grand finale was a curious Sherlock leaning down, opal eyes locked with John’s, to lap delicately at his cockhead before dipping his tongue beneath his foreskin on an upward stroke.

John came too hard and too quickly to warn Sherlock. He couldn’t even _breathe._ He simply exploded over the aristocratic man’s face and into his mouth before sagging back on the bed as if he’d run a marathon.

“Holy shit,” John panted.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, flopping down beside him.

“Will you take these pictures down now?”

“Are you mad?” Sherlock replied with a scoff, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Well…” John shrugged, “It’s a bit weird seeing a giant pic of myself wanking on the ceiling while you’re going at me.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock decided as he stared up at he ceiling as well, “We’ll add one of me.”

“Oh… okay,” John replied, finding himself unopposed to this idea.

“Rimming you.”

“Ummmm…”

_fin_.


End file.
